(I was putting in some pot lights and crown moulding for this fancy mansion on the hill, and happened to meet an old friend I knew from my trailer park days. I said I was surprised to see her living there, and she was only too happy to tell me her story. I thought she was very mean but she said I could make her story public. I think it says somewhere that jealousy is cruel as the grave. There aint no girl, like a jealous girl)
Some call it a crab in a barrel mentality. Others call it bitch on bitch crime. I call it wanting to be one up on all my American trailer park sisters.
I don't want no horny bitch stealing my man, whether he be black or white. And I don't want no fellow trailer park bitch prancing around town with a better man then mine. Nor do I want her being better dressed than I am, either. Call me evil if you want to, but it's just a philosophy I have.
So when my best friend Clarise showed up with a hot looking rich boy in tow, and he was wearing designer clothes, and driving an eighty thousand dollar BMW, I began to become unglued. What's that motherfuckin' ho bitch friend of mine doing with such a sweet boy? She don't even smell good.
Damn bitch ain't cleaned all that rotting man cum out from between her legs since dinosaurs still roamed the earth. And what is up with her floosy dress? If the material in her dress was any tighter it would fire her damn giant ass like a slingshot all the way to Mars and back.
And just look at those sorry ass fake fingernails of hers. Pity the poor marrying boy that takes her upstairs on their honey moon only to find out ain't no part of her even real! Her hair is a damn wig, and when it's not a damn wig, she done got so many extensions woven into her scalp that you can weave a damn plastic rug with just half of them. And her middle name outta be 'gums' cause if you done took out all her dentures that'd be all you were left with, gums.
And just what is up with that sorry ass makeup? Her face looks like it fell into a can of rouge paint after some aliens dyed her eyelids metallic blue like the damn broken down rust bucket blue Ford parked in her driveway.
And I ain't smokin' around her neither, cause the gas pouring out of that foul bum hole of hers, if ignited, could take out a whole city block. But I still don't know what smells worse, her cock sucking breath, or her nose tweaking soaked underarms.
Hmmm, I sure don't hope she's about to show him her saggy, knee knocking breasts without a push up bra to keep the damn things from dragging through the mud on a rainy day. And where does it say that you're allowed to cram a size twenty-two body into a motherfucking size fourteen dress? She looks more like two hundred pounds of potatoes crammed into a one hundred pound burlap sack, all lumpy, and ready to explode and tear out the seams like some poor elastic band that can't stretch no more!
And where'd she learn to walk? On a hookers corner?
I'd hazard a guess she does her shopping at a used thrift shop, only I know the stuff in their stores is a lot better than that. At least have some pride, girl! You're bringing down the entire trailer park race with that ratty wardrobe of yours!
And those gaudy trinkets she tries to pass off as jewelry? OMG!!!!!!!!!! Give it up, girl. That junk hanging around your neck and dirtying up your ears...is it really necessary to keep reminding us that hey! This uneducated bitch friend of mine ain't got no class!
And when you talk? If yer gonna not use words properly, just close yer mouth, girl. That's right, simply sew up those lips of yours and take a course in the proper use of English before you foul the air with more than just your stinky fish breath.
And make sure that new beau of yours is gonna keep taking you to them fancy restaurants you've been boastin' to everyone about, cause the way your poor momma tells it, the inedible slop you cook now and again isn't fit for even that mangy pet dog of yours. Every time you fill your parent's garbage cans with your cooking leftovers, why every morning after you see all the cats just laying in your driveway, groanin' and a moanin' over the sorest bellies this side of the Mississippi, and those that aren't sick are dead, their poor four paws stuck stiff in the air like corpses full of overripe poison from your damn stovetop!!!
Clarise, Clarise, Clarise! When are you gonna learn to at least use a lipstick that costs more than half a dollar. The one you got plastered over those rough uneven lips of yours is coming off every where, onto your coffee cups, onto your boyfriend's cheek, onto your cigarette butts, and even onto the burger buns you cram into that shovel mouth of yours two at a time! Yuck! Where's a gag bucket when I need one?
And the way you shake those thunder thighs and massive hips of yours, kind of reminds me of the 1906 San Francisco earthquake. You need to lose more than a few pounds before showing of your flabby booty like that.
And I aint gonna call you no more to see how you're getting along with your new rich beau, even if we are supposed to be best friends 'n all. Girl, talking with you on the phone is like talking to some zombie with a single digit IQ. It's kind of hard to follow you when you're unable to string more than two words together at a time. What grade did you graduate from, grade seven? Ain't you never heard of high school?
My phone rings. I gaze at the number. Speak of the devil.
"Hi Clarise. How you gettin' along with rich boy?"
"Rich boy has a name. Harold."
"Rich boy Harold, has a nice ring to it."
"Honestly Sophia," she says to me. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were jealous of my new boyfriend."
"Who me? Jealous of you with that new handsome rich man of yours, tossin' money round like it grew on trees? Girl, you know I'm happy for you. You need to get a grip. You been breathing in too many fumes from that overheating, twelve year old Ford engine of yours. I think it's wonderful you found such a great guy."
"Hmmm, okay, thanks. Listen, I need a favor. You remember last year you was telling me about that pill you took once?"
I struggle to remember just what the hell she is talking about.
"You know, when you had sex and your man didn't wear no glove the night before."
"You mean birth control pills?"
"No. I ain't been using none of those. I think they call it the morning after pill."
A light bulb finally goes off in my head. She is talking about the emergency pill you can get at the drugstore or clinic when your man was simply too damn hot the night before to pull out on time, and he ended up filling you with his baby making batter.
"Oh, I know what you're talking about. Does that mean that money man and you are finally getting between the sheets?"
"Yeah, it does. He's a really good lover. Went for a whole two hours. Only he don't like wearing condoms on account of he says that they get in the way. He wants me to get some birth control pills, and I said I would, only my appointment with my doctor to get hooked up with them is a whole two weeks away. In the meantime, if I had some of those emergency pills, then-"
A broad smile suddenly plasters itself across my mischievous jealous face. Not only am I jealous of my best friend, but I am insanely jealous of her. I decide to play a rotten trick on her.
"Let me guess, it's not only a Sunday morning, but a holiday as well, and the clinic and drugstores are closed, and you don't want none of his little fishies to fertilize that defenseless big old egg of yours, is that it?"
